Illusions
by Nara Merald
Summary: He hated snow hated it and loved it. He loved watching her twirling eagerly in the drifting flakes as she laughed and lived. He hated watching the sorrow in her eyes when it melted away as if it had never been.


**Illusions**

_**Summary:**__ He hated snow; hated it and loved it. He loved watching her twirling eagerly in the drifting flakes as she laughed and lived. He hated watching the sorrow in her eyes when it melted away as if it had never been.  
__**Disclaimer:**__ I do not own the Black Jewels Trilogy. romance, angst, implied death. Merry Xmas '06._

**Illusions** by Nara Merald

Before he'd met her, he'd never particularly cared about the illusions that made up snow. Many things had affected him over the centuries, but never the fleeting sensation of frozen rain disguised as some sort of fluffy white powder. He'd felt sorry for the tree he'd destroyed, raged inwardly time after time when spoilt witches and warlords had broken the fragile honour code of the Blood, but never taken a second look at snow.

He'd never thought of a snowflake as a particularly complex creation until Witch walked into his life. As a child, Jaenelle and Daemon had had a snow fight that had melted the ice surrounding his own heart, but even then, his attention had never been piqued by it. Snow was an illusion to him, on so many levels.

He would never forget the sight of Witch the woman's face lighting up as she smiled and stepped out into the white wonderland and twirled around in the snow. Her laughter was free and unrestrained, her eyes showing her pure enjoyment.

Witch, Jaenelle, Kaeleer's Heart always loved the beginning of the snow. He'd watched her excitement with hope, feeling his own spirits raise as he tentatively extended a hand; cordially and solemnly asked her to dance. At first, she smiled, humouring him he later realised, and placed her own smaller hand in his own. Twirling her around as the flakes fell, it was the picture of romance, a young couple in love, as the dance slowed and he gazed into Witch's eyes.

"Drop the mask." He uttered, and she acquiesced by dropping the human flesh and summoning the new dress she wore. Unlike the black spider silk, this dress rippled rainbow, mimicking Twilight's Dawn, edged in black lace. He'd loved the Queen of Ebon Askavi who had the power to match him, mourned the loss of her. But he loved Kaeleer's heart more, and sometimes it took that dress with its black lace warning to remind him that the Queen of Ebon Askavi was not who he'd tried to save. Another shattered illusion.

At some point, their dance halted completely, and basking in the warmth they'd summoned from their jewels, Daemon bent down to her lips, tracing a hand around her waist and drinking in the fact that she was there, and she was _alive_. Kissing her, feeling the warmth of her slim body pressed against his, he had to calm himself to prevent the kiss from turning away from joy and into desperation. As if sensing the twist that Daemon's mood had taken, Jaenelle grinned and deposited a lump of snow onto his head.

"Let's dance." She suggested with a grin, implying that the beautifully sedate and graceful court dance was anything but a _real _dance. Dorothea would have rolled in her grave to see the Sadist twirling and leaping about in the snow, chasing his wife laughing.

He treasured that memory, because he'd thought that for her, it was that simple. He should have known; nothing about Witch was ever that simple. When they'd fallen, exhausted, on their backs in the snow, he watched her. He'd only ever had eyes for her, but she was… not out of his reach exactly, but standing on the edge somewhere. Her white hand was held out, watching as a snowflake drifted delicately down to touch her fingers, and he saw her breath pause. As much as it hurt, he was too astute to miss the way her breath caught and held… until the flake melted away and she released her breath slowly.

The right words would not come to his lips, as she reached for another flake. His chest tightened painfully. The flake touched her skin, held for a moment and then disappeared, slipping through her fingers as she repeated the sad little ritual again and again. They both knew she could have used craft to preserve the fragile icicles, but she didn't. She just held her breath as they melted away like they had never been.

Witch had known great sorrow in her life and was still haunted. The young daughter of the Blood had felt every tremor and cry across the land, had knelt in the mud on scraped knees to plant the witch blood for each witch. Perhaps to her, the melting of the snow represented the people who had slipped away from her, and the joy was just an illusion. Daemon wondered who she was remembering… Perhaps the slaughtered Kindred, the Briarwood girls, or the other disappearances caused by Lord Menzar… Perhaps to her the snowflakes represented the living and dying dreams, the rising and falling of the darkness in the abyss, the blurring line between sanity and reality…

If Daemon was brutally honest, he would say that it could have been any of those things and he would be none the wiser. Privacy was important to Witch, and Daemon would never intrude on her memories. He would take whatever information she would give him freely. Everyone, coven or no, knew Daemon lived, breathed, killed for Witch. He served. He loved.

Daemon wondered how she felt snow, could it be as a soft touch, as delicately cold and deceased fingers reaching for her, as a frozen harsh wind? He may not have been privy to Witch's innermost thoughts, but he knew his wife. So while those gentle cold crystals touched down, she admired their beauty and mourned for their fragility. He thought that she truly felt childlike joy at the first sight of the snow, but could never forget that snow was like an illusion, something she could never really keep. A normal child would not fret, assuming that the snowflakes would be endless and replaceable. But she wouldn't have been Witch if she hadn't mourned for each snowflake that disappeared, never to return again.

And now with every fresh snowfall, Daemon retreated into solitude, still loving and loathing the white chips of ice. The illusion now was that he never knew whether to delight in the memories that the fleeting flakes stirred up and feel that she was with him, or cry for the cold loneliness their sensation brought on when the illusion shattered, now that his dancing partner danced in realms no longer.

Every year, from the first time he'd watched her reaction to the snow, to the last year he'd watched her reaction to the snow… and the subsequent years after, he wondered whether he hated or loved the white. To all outside appearances, Jaenelle, Witch, had delighted in the snow, an illusion she fought hard to maintain, even when he could see the quiet sorrow in her eyes. For so many years, Daemon had thought of snow as something _she_ felt for, and looking inward, asked the question of himself. Did he like Snow? Did he feel anything for the many layered illusions between Jaenelle and the Snow?

Daemon hated snow; hated it and loved it. He'd loved watching her twirling eagerly in the drifting flakes as she laughed and lived. He'd hated watching the sorrow in her eyes when it melted away as if it had never been.

**The End**


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